


Kiss Magic

by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Jehan is their usual awesome self, Other, Poetry Smash Week, Poetry Smash Week 2020, and Bahorel loves them a LOT, graphic depiction of Bahorel snAPPING, it has nothing to do with police brutality or racism but it is there, spoiler alert: he snaps with his fists, tw there's talk of a protest and of violence occurring during said protest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD
Summary: “He still can’t shake off his tension and his feeling that things are off, the world tipped over. This, Bahorel having to get antiseptic to clean Jehan's wounds is wrong. Not because he doesn't want to care for his partner, but because his partner, of all people, should not be hurt.”After a protest goes awry, Bahorel cares for Jehan’s wounds, Jehan just cares for Bahorel.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	Kiss Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I'm being told (very late) in my earpiece that this week is Poetry Smash Week and FUCK YES! So here's my contribution to it!
> 
> As always, maaassive thanks to my _awesome_ beta, [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre)!

Bahorel is still shaking by the time they return to Jehan’s place —though at this point, it is Jehan’s place only in name and financially, since Bahorel has long started thinking of it as his home. There’s everything Bahorel cares about here. There’s his boxing gear, his old and battered ukulele and the products of his entire hair care regimen, as well as half of his clothes, a toothbrush, and his collection of hair ties —now hopelessly mixed with Jehan’s. He also now has a bunch of plant babies which are really all Jehan’s, but he’s started watering them all to their own individual needs and that, according to Jehan and Musichetta, a plant fiend herself, qualifies as ‘co-parenting’. And, most importantly, he’s got _Jehan_ , here, which automatically makes this small crowded place _home_. 

The sight of their shared living space is usually relaxing, and practically carrying Jehan inside is typically exciting. It is the promise of laughter: Bahorel will throw them on their bed to either tickle them until they are squealing, breathless and begging for mercy, or to kiss them _everywhere_ until they are moaning, breathless, and also begging for mercy, albeit of a different kind. Today, his bruised hands are trembling, his mind is fogged up by lingering fear, and he’s probably squeezing Jehan’s arm a little too tight.

“I’m okay, love. It doesn’t even hurt that bad,” Jehan says when Bahorel, wearing a frown so deep it slashes his forehead in two severe halves, sits them on the sofa.

“St— stay here,” he tells them, giving the top of their head a careful peck. He goes to the bathroom when he suddenly stops in his tracks and turns back towards Jehan. He has no idea where he is going.

They smile at him knowingly. “It’s the tin box above the fridge.”

If Bahorel’s cluelessness makes Jehan smile, this has Bahorel pausing; it goes to show how wrong the situation is. It is usually Bahorel who returns from boxing class or a random street fight injured, and it is Jehan who gets the first aid kit and patches him up lovingly before they fix him some tea —Bahorel still doesn’t have the heart to tell them he doesn’t like tea. If it makes his partner happy, Bahorel will drink the damn hot leaf juice.

Bahorel reaches the fridge where he finds, as told, the first aid kit waiting for him; he wonders how he’s never spotted the thing before, because it’s high enough that it meets his eyesight perfectly, and high enough that Jehan probably has to to jump, raise to their tiptoes, or even use a step stool to reach it. He takes it with unsure fingers; he still can’t shake off his tension and his feeling that things are off, the world tipped over. _This_ , Bahorel having to get antiseptic to clean Jehan's wounds, is _wrong_. Not because he doesn't want to care for his partner, but because his partner, of all people, should not be hurt.

Jehan isn't nearly as soft and frail as one might expect upon first judgment of their short stature and soft-spoken manners and impossibly kind soul. They attend protests just like the rest of Les Amis, they can be just as loud, they are just as brave, and Bahorel knows it better than anyone. However, Bahorel, who sees them first thing in the morning, all mussed, sweet-smelling and sleepy, when they struggle to keep their eyes open because of how late they went to bed, so taken were they with watching the stars, so deep were they buried in their books, is also the first to forget. 

When he returns to Jehan’s side, the red and pink bruise that mars their face is twice as jarring as it was when he left them on the sofa. He hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off of Jehan since they’d both left the protest, and yet, the sight still shakes him to his core. 

Bahorel drops to his knees on the floor, and his face is almost level with Jehan’s from where they’re perched on the sofa. He’d laugh, usually, use the occasion to drop a peck on their nose, but he’s still too grave, too scared to maybe hurt them with his brash touch, too scared that he’ll never let them go if he allows himself to lean into them now.

The tin box slips from his hands twice as he fiddles with it to get it open and inspect its contents. He’s lost; has it really been so long since he’s cared for his own injuries? He never pays much attention to what it is they use when Jehan takes care of him. He’s usually too busy watching the way their nose scrunches up in concentration, how they bite their bottom lip when they try to be careful, how he'd like to bite it for them.

“It’s nothing you haven’t used before, dear,” Jehan tells him, pulling him from his anxious reverie. 

Bahorel grunts. “Right, right, sorry.” And he is, because aside from his battered, bloody knuckles, Bahorel has escaped unscathed, and he’s used to injuries, too. He barely even registers them anymore.

Bahorel gets a gauze, some antiseptic, and lifts a still shaking hand to Jehan’s cheekbone, where their skin has split from the fist that met their face. Bahorel barely even dabs the wound, scared to hurt them even more, when Jehan’s hand wraps around his wrist so very gently, as if he were the one injured.

“Bahorel… I’m not made of glass, you know?” Their voice is so smooth, and what right have they to sound so gentle and calm when someone dared to lift a hand against them?

Bahorel shuts his eyes, presses them closed so tight he’s sure his vision will be blurry when he dares open them again. 

He sees him, again and again, burned on his retinas, the tall brute —so much like himself— who so clearly didn’t belong in this supposedly peaceful protest. He sees Jehan, a short sprite of a person, filled with enough nerves and spine for half the crowd present that day, get in the guy’s face and push him away. Whatever the jerk had said, it must have been bad, because Jehan rarely lets their temper get the better of them, unlike Bahorel, whose primary reflex to any sort of hostility is to punch first and think second. He’d never seen them so enraged, and yet, he hadn’t stopped to get a good look. 

The second he’d noticed Jehan shouting, their whole body leaning forward to try and push the man away in anger, Bahorel’s mind had gone blind, his thoughts blacked out, sent into overdrive by adrenaline and fear.

He hates himself for it, now. How had he let himself be dragged so far away from them? Where was Feuilly, who’d been attached to their side the last time he’d seen them? He hates himself for it now, because he hadn’t even had time to process his guilt then. He’d felt himself lurch forward, fight through the crowd in rude shoves that he still can’t bring himself to regret, especially not when he replays the instant the guy’s fist had met Jehan’s face in a hard crash against their bone that had sent them sprawling on their back from the sheer strength of it.

What he regrets the least, still, is the many enraged, uncontrolled blows he’d given to the man’s face. His mouth had just opened in surprise when Bahorel had tackled him to the ground, sending them both on the sidewalk. He hadn’t even had time to beg or apologise before he was knocked out cold from Bahorel’s fist to his temple. Bahorel had kept going for a while more, until someone —Combeferre, he thinks— had dragged him back and away from the guy. He doesn’t even regret the parting kick he’d given to the guy’s balls, for good measure.

Torn away from the man’s limp body, Bahorel had thrown himself to the ground once more to kneel by Jehan’s side, to cradle their face in his large, bruised, violent hands, to kiss their hair again and again and again. He’s sure now that the crowd must have looked at him, punching, kicking the guy, as if he was a monster. They must have wondered about this slight, oddly dressed, yet graceful and tender person being pressed so tight against his chest. Bahorel knows, he knows now, then and always, that they are an odd pair, with him only thoughtful in private, so prone to violence and brashness in public, and Jehan so very _precious_ all the damn time. 

He hadn’t waited for the cops to arrive, for the medics to get there; he’d stood and scooped up Jehan in his arms and walked away, the protest be damned. He doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore, and he stopped caring the moment Jehan was harmed.

Jehan squeezes Bahorel’s wrist once more, bringing him back to the present moment. His hands are still hanging dumbly in the air, just short of pressing the gauze to Jehan’s cut.

“I’m _all right_ ,” they tell him again, and, as if to make their point, they bring the back of his hand to their lips and kiss it soothingly. They still look so much calmer than he feels. He forgets that they always let themself be coddled because he loves to dote on them, not because they need him to. They’re so much stronger than anyone he knows, and so much braver than anyone would think them to be.

He tries to channel some of their strength, quiet as it is, and finally stills his trembling body enough to allow him to touch the gauze to Jehan’s cheek. 

They don’t even wince, and if he hadn’t been so afraid less than an hour ago, he’d scoff about them making him look like a baby —he still whines a little when they clean his cuts. Instead, they remain still and let him do his work quietly. When Bahorel stands to get frozen peas and a towel to press against the angry bruise that is blossoming on their face, they still don’t shy away. If anything, they almost lean into Bahorel’s hand through the peas when he returns.

“I’m afraid you’ll have a nasty bruise for some days, love,” Bahorel says, choked off. 

“It’s okay, I’ll be all sexy like you!” they tell him, much too happy for someone who will need to keep frozen peas pressed to their face for the rest of the day.

Bahorel scoffs. “You’re never not sexy, anyway. I’d rather you leave that sort of sex appeal to others and stay safe.” He tries to keep up with Jehan’s lightness but fails miserably. His voice sounds bitter and fearful, still. 

Jehan hums. They’re good at reading him, and if their first attempt at lightening up the room has failed, they know better than to push it for now. Bahorel always comes around, eventually, but his emotions run high and fear makes him a little rough. Even now, when he means well, he can tell he’s like sandpaper trying to pet one of these ugly naked cats that Jehan loves so much; he wants to soothe but suspects he’ll only manage to scrape what has already been made vulnerable.

They remain quiet for a while, or as quiet as Jehan can realistically be, until they start humming one of the songs the crowd was chanting during the protest, before it all went downhill.

“Okay, I think I’m done,” Bahorel says eventually, unsure.

But before Bahorel can remove the makeshift ice pack from their cheek, Jehan shakes their head. “You forgot the most important part.”

Bahorel frowns, confused, until he sees Jehan’s ever lovely and surprisingly mischievous grin. He finally smiles, softer.

“I’m not sure I’ve got your powers, my love.” 

“The magic is in the kiss, not in the person giving it,” they protest.

“Wrong. _You’re_ magic,” Bahorel tells them, and his honesty must show, because their smile turns a little dopey for a few seconds. They catch themself quickly.

“Kiss magic is kiss magic, Bahorel. I don’t make the rules,” they say seriously, unbending, and that almost gets Bahorel smiling — until he removes the peas from Jehan’s face and the bruise is there, angry pink already and marring their skin in a way that flips Bahorel’s stomach. Hurt is not something that ever should occur to Jehan, not to someone so kind and delicate and— Bahorel can never put it into words; they’re the poet, not him— but the physical evidence of anger turned against Jehan who represents the very best of this world, in his eyes, is _wrong_. It’s like the ocean is overhead, the sky under his feet, like the sun rises in the West and the stars have fallen down.

Jehan looks at them expectantly all the while and tilts their head just so, pushing the wound towards Bahorel. They wait.

Bahorel sets the pea bag down much more delicately than he usually would, leaving it on the sofa in easy reach of Jehan, should the bruise start stinging again, and he leans forward. His hand reaches up and cups Jehan’s cheek, the one that’s still clear of bruising, only speckled with faint freckles and old acne scars and that one mole under their eye, but his touch is fleeting. He’s dealt so much hurt and violence today already —all deserved, he still thinks— that it’s almost hard for him to gauge how much of his contact is loving, how much is destructive. Slowly, so very slowly because he’s terrified Jehan will think better of it and bolt, or disappear into thin air, Bahorel leans in and presses the softest kiss he’s ever given in his life. 

Kisses are usually something he takes, because Jehan always happily gives them, but this one is a butterfly wing on Jehan’s skin, just a gentle breeze passing, and it is countless “I’m sorry this happened to you”, “I’m sorry I lost you in the crowd”, “I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough”, and even more “I love you—I love you—I love you”. 

When he draws back, Jehan’s hand has dropped on Bahorel’s own, the one cupping their cheek, and it holds Bahorel. It’s too soft to be a command; it’s an invitation to stay.

And because he can’t quite stop himself, not when his face hovers so near his lover’s, and not when they’re so gentle with him, Bahorel leans forward again, just a little further down, and gives them another kiss. That one lands on their lips, and it starts just as soft as the first one, just as fragile and vulnerable, but Jehan presses forward and into Bahorel. They squeeze his hand a little harder, and they open their mouth under Bahorel’s, quietly goading him on. It stays chaste enough, neither of them licks forward: rather, it’s like they’re sharing the same air, Jehan breathing their unassuming strength out and into Bahorel with one press of their lips after the other.

When they draw back, Bahorel is breathless and floored, but he’s somehow stopped shaking. His heart doesn’t feel like an ugly, heavy boulder in his chest anymore; it’s stuck in his throat and beating fast, like an excited butterfly that’s trying to find its way out, but it’s not unpleasant. Jehan is grinning, their eyes bright and their lips reddened to match the bruise, looking mightily pleased with themself.

Bahorel breathes out through his nose and blinks once, twice, thrice as his body settles back and he feels at peace for the first time since they left the flat this very morning. He snorts.

“Kiss magic is one potent fucker.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As always, don't forget to tip your fic writers in kudos and comments if you've enjoyed their stuff! It takes a second and it makes their day! Thanks a lot for reading!
> 
> You can find me on [my main Tumblr](https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com) and on [my Les Mis one](https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com)!


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